Forget-Me-Not
by fasciculus
Summary: Just as boredom is about to take its toll on Sherlock Holmes, he receives an unexpected dinner invitation. Four years ago, he would have refused... but things have changed between himself and the Woman. Contains spoilers for series 3. Most chapters rated T, M rated chapters will be noted in the author's notes.
1. An Unnecessary Pun

"So… he just fell?"

"Yes."

"You didn't throw him out of the window like you did with the American bloke. He just fell."

"Yes, John. He just fell." Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh, frustrated by the fact that his friend simply wasn't as gullible as he was five years ago. He heard a laugh from Mary who was sitting in the corner and shot her a dangerous look, "what?" He demanded, slightly embarrassed by just how transparent his lie was. Telling the truth would be backing down, though, and Sherlock _never _admitted defeat.

"Nothing! It's just… Oh, Sherlock, you are funny sometimes," she continued giggling at the detective as he glared at her, understanding he was too proud to withdraw from his lie. Both Mary and John Watson were completely aware that Sherlock threw the man out of the window, and Sherlock was equally aware that they knew this. Mary had occasionally been able to pry the truth from him – he "learnt it on YouTube," "saw Mycroft do it once," "got the idea from Blue Peter" – but those times were few and far between and it didn't seem as though now was one of them.

Sherlock jumped out of his armchair and stepped through the kitchen and into the hallway. He was bored. Stupendously bored. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy John and Mary's company; he appreciated their presence a great deal. It was more that nothing 'big' had happened, so to speak. Yes, Jim Moriarty had miraculously popped up from the dead thus preventing Sherlock from being dead in six months' time and he was grateful for that, but Moriarty had been completely quiet for weeks on end now. Sherlock had had very few interesting cases, a lot more death threats than usual (he supposed that that had something to do with shooting their favourite journalist in the head; never a good way to make friends), several "tuts" from Mrs Hudson for "treating poor Janine like that," (he had told her he was with Janine to gather information which would help him take down the most dangerous man he had ever met but, alas, Mrs Hudson nagged him that it was "no excuse" and threatened to speak with his mother again). Right now, he was desperate.

"They're not in there," John called from the living room, "or in that weird pointy slipper. I'm not stupid, you know."

"Do you get that impression?" Sherlock felt utterly furious that John had moved his cigarettes; they were _his _cigarettes, not _John's _cigarettes. He could almost taste the tobacco in his mouth and feel the smoke fill his lungs as he thought about them. Instead of arguing back, though, he continued on to his room. Sherlock was in an excessively defensive mood, obsessing over petty actions merely to prove a point. His only justification for this behaviour was that he was bored. Following slamming his door rather childishly, Sherlock threw himself onto his bed, burying his face deep into his pillow. His room was cold despite the fact that he was not one for opening windows and so he assumed that Mrs Hudson had opened it after tidying his room – she really was his housekeeper. After moving his head out of his pillow and turning over, however, he dropped this conclusion entirely.

On the pillow beside him lay a few sky blue flowers, joined at the stem. _Myosotis arvensis_, or 'forget-me-nots' as people more often called them. They were extremely small flowers, each with five-lobed petals and bright yellow centres. "Flowers?" Sherlock whispered, confused about the flowers' source. Sherlock picked up the little flowers and climbed off of his bed, walking back into the living room.

"Pleased to see you've finished your little strop now, Sherlock!" John mocked, smirking at genius' immaturity.

"Did either of you leave myosotis on my bed?" Sherlock enquired, frowning at the couple.

"Myo-what-is? Do you want to speak English now, mate?"

"Forget-me-nots. Did you leave little blue flowers on my pillow?"

"Who even uses the scientific names of plants?!" John laughed, shaking his head at Sherlock.

Sherlock opted to ignore John's remark, pushing again at his enquiry, "did you or didn't you?"

"Sherlock, why would we leave you a couple of flowers in your room?" Mary smiled at him as she went into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on, "perhaps it's Moriarty letting you know he's still here. He's a bit of a drama queen, after all, so sending you flowers to make sure you forget-him-not seems like his style."

"I couldn't forget him if I tried. Well," Sherlock raised his eyebrows in thought, "I could delete him. But that's not exactly safe. It's not Moriarty though, no. He'd go for something more in-your-face – a bomb with 'love from Jim' on a post-it-note or something."

John chuckled and rolled his eyes at this thought; a bomb in place of flowers was much more James Moriarty style. "I'll have a cup of tea if you're making yourself one, Mary," John folded his newspaper and placed it on the table next to him. Except for the sound of teaspoons clinking against the sides of mugs as Mary made tea, the flat had gone quickly silent, meaning each and every tiny sound was audible. Even from Sherlock's bedroom.

Almost imperceptibly, Sherlock's phone went off. Except this wasn't his usual text alert.

"What the fuck was that?" John uttered, slowly looking up at Sherlock who still stood clutching the forget-me-nots.

Sherlock felt his stomach turn and lost his breath for a second. Had John not have reacted, he might have thought he had imagined the sound. He knew he couldn't lie to John; such a noise was unmistakable and it was one which John had heard from his friend's phone many times. John knew exactly what "that" was. This wasn't something Sherlock could attempt to lie his way out of. Instead, he went with what he had said the first time: "it's a text alert. It means I've got a text."

As Sherlock began to walk to his room, John sprung from his seat and grabbed the detective, "don't you dare walk away from me. Care to bloody explain? She's dead. Mycroft told me she was dead. He checked. He was thorough. And now you want to tell me she's alive?" Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by John, "no, you stay quiet just for a second, Sherlock Holmes. You let me believe she was dead. I had to hold that information from you, I had to lie to you and tell you she was on a witness protection scheme thinking that even that thought would break your heart, I had to worry about how you'd feel if you ever found out she was dead and you just let me? When were you gonna tell me, Sherlock? Were you ever gonna tell me? I'm your friend, your _best friend_, for fuck's sake, and you couldn't even trust me with that information." John shook his head and slumped back into his armchair, "how is she still alive?"

Sherlock sat opposite John, eager rush through the story in order to sooner fetch his phone. "I had been tracking her for a while to ensure her safety and when I realised she'd been captured I flew out to Karachi. I was only away for a few days and for those days you were visiting Harry. She has an entirely new identity which I set up for her and has been safe ever since. There's been no need to tell you, John, and I apologise that the secret offended you. It was vital that the information was kept off of your blog, though."

"You think I'd post that on my blog? Do you seriously not trust me at all?"

"It's not that I don't trust you," Sherlock stood up from his chair and unbuttoned his suit jacket, "you know that I trust you more than anyone. I just couldn't tell you."

"You'd rather let me believe she was dead?"

"Much less irritating that way; no unnecessary questions about the trip to Pakistan for me to answer and what not."

"So," John called as Sherlock walked into the kitchen, "you let me think she was dead so I didn't ask if you had sex with her? Nice one, Sherlock." He rolled his eyes and shook his head, vexed by his friend's lack of empathy.

"As it so happens, yes!" Sherlock smiled patronisingly before rushing into his bedroom. He threw the flowers back onto his bed and took his phone from his coat which hung on his door, just as it had the first time he'd heard that particular text alert.

_Did you like the flowers? I thought they were appropriate. IA_

For a mere second, Sherlock found himself to be absolutely livid with the Woman. Using this particular number could get her into a great deal of danger and, since it was him who had been so careful about ensuring her safety, this was the last thing he wanted to happen. She could be tracked down – there was always the chance that there were people keeping an eye out for her, even after her "death" – and perhaps even caught. She was foolish to have actually signed the text with her initials; even if somebody else was now using her mobile number, it was highly unlikely that they'd share her initials. She was practically giving herself up. Sherlock hoped, though, that nobody would be tracking the number as her fake-death had been extremely convincing.

Sherlock considered ignoring the text message but knew that not replying would simply provoke her to text him all the more. Instead, he replied:

_An unnecessary pun. SH_

He was aware that texting back would do nothing to improve the safety of her using the number but he supposed that nor would not texting back. He sat on his bed, suddenly nervous for her reply. Straight away he knew that these nerves were pointless as he read her more than predictable reply:

_Just making sure you don't delete me in a hurry. Let's have dinner. IA_

Sherlock smirked at her obviousness as he stood up from his bed and grabbed his coat. Walking into the kitchen, he saw a confused John Watson staring at him from his armchair.

"You're suddenly looking a bit confident. You might want to deflate your ego a bit in case you can't squeeze it out of the door!" John taunted, laughing to himself as he saw the detective frown.

"Off out, Sherlock?" Mary enquired, looking genuinely interested, "John tells me you're off to meet some dead woman… another Casper, then?"

"Ha! She's more of an over-friendly ghost if you ask me!" The doctor continued to mock Sherlock; he took great pleasure from seeing his friend's discomfort in regards to the Woman.

"Oh, John, stop it now! It's nice for Sherlock to take interest in someone for reasons other than getting information about her boss from her. How did you two meet? He says you've known her for a few years now."

John burst out laughing upon his wife's question about their first encounter and Sherlock shot him an angry glance. He knew it was probably best that Mary didn't find out that the woman in question was a former dominatrix who had introduced herself by straddling his thigh whilst stark naked (with the exception of her Louboutins and diamond earrings) as he attempted to retrieve compromising photographs of herself with a member of the royal family. Well, not for now, anyway. Instead, he chose to give her a censored version of the events, "I met her on a case." He heard John snigger and decided that this would be a good time to leave before the conversation got particularly complicated.

"Where are you off to?" John asked as Sherlock walked out of the door.

Poking his head back around, he replied "I'm off for dinner with Miss Irene Adler."


	2. Landmarks

_I know a place. SH_

_I've had years to decide where we're dining. Zafferano. I expect you there in no more than half an hour. IA_

_Belgravia. How predictable. SH_

_And I assumed Italian would be a little vanilla for you. SH_

_It was chosen with you in mind. IA_

Sherlock scoffed at this; he wasn't vanilla at all! Perhaps rather avoidant of romance and feelings but that certainly didn't make him vanilla! At least, not in his own opinion. In Irene's, on the other hand…

He was already quite aware that the Woman would already have a restaurant in mind (she had had four years of asking him to dinner to decide, after all) and judging by the name of her choice of flowers this restaurant would be in Belgravia; she'd want them to dine in a location which somehow related to where they first met. She had always been rather obsessed with ensuring that Sherlock kept her in mind which she really didn't need to do as he knew he could never bring himself to forget about her, regardless of what information could be stored in her place. With these details considered, he had already taken a cab to Belgravia. Zafferano was only a few minutes' walk from where he stood currently. He took this walk somewhat slowly, giving himself extra time to think over the possibilities of various events which could occur over dinner. There would most likely be some form of physical contact between the two of them, reminiscent of their time spent with one another in Karachi and whilst 'dead'. She'd probably pinch the young waiter's bum and, in return, receive a complimentary glass of wine. He'd definitely say something he probably shouldn't mention but, unlike when they had first known each other, she wouldn't use this information to attempt to bring the nation to its knees; instead, she'd just smile at his carelessness.

As he approached the restaurant, Sherlock noticed Irene smile after presumably having caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye. "Miss Adler," he spoke as she stood up from her seat. As ever, he couldn't help opening his mouth slightly as he looked at her, slightly in awe of just how beautiful she was. He could understand why so many men, himself included, had given away important and vitally confidential information away to her.

"Mr Holmes. Or are we on a first name basis now?" She smirked as she saw the impression she had made on the detective. Irene brushed a finger over his dusty blue shirt, the front of which was exposed beneath his coat, "I prefer you in purple."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"We're having dinner. I'm not sure even your blue shirt could dampen my current mood."

Sherlock suddenly felt slightly uncomfortable. Irene looked perfectly elegant; her long curls were draped over her shoulders, giving her a less 'dominating' appearance than with her usual choice of victory rolls. She wore a cap-sleeved dress with a high neckline which was white but had parts which were comprised solely of black lace. Of course, she had on her signature red-soled black Louboutins and teardrop diamond earrings. Her lips had been painted blood red and her eyes lined in black. Over her arm she held a black coat. Stood next to her, Sherlock felt completely out of place. It was quite surreal, he thought, having her there in front of him after her presence being simply chimerical, only in his mind palace, for what had seemed like forever. He hesitated for a second before speaking, "you look… what time are our reservations?"

Irene looked bewildered by this, "reservations? I thought you would have booked the table."

"You decided where we were going and told me to meet you in half an hour…"

"Yes, but I expected that you'd make the reservations!"

The great detective felt like an utter idiot. It was not often that he went out to eat and so the thought of booking a table had completely slipped his mind. Had he really misunderstood something so obvious? He looked around, considering going in and asking if they'd be able to give them a table without booking, though he knew this was not a possibility in a well-rated Italian restaurant in such a desirable London area.

Unexpectedly, the Woman began to laugh, "you really thought I'd take you for dinner but expect you to book the table? Oh, Mr Holmes," she rolled her eyes at his look of annoyance, "for someone so intelligent you are rather stupid."

Sherlock glared at her for a second. "Shall we?" he asked in an extremely bored tone. He placed a hand on her lower back and guided her into Zafferano, leaning in to whisper to her as they entered the restaurant. "Don't make me change my mind, Miss Adler."

"How can I stop you?" She uttered back, wearing a mischievous look on her face.

"Oh, I don't know… perhaps you could beg for mercy. Twice."

"Never in my life, Mr Holmes."

"Twice." He suppressed a grin as he approached a middle aged gentleman at a small wooden stand by the front entrance. The waiter asked if they had a booking, his accent very proper, and showed them to their table after Irene gave the man Sherlock's surname.

"Paolo shall be serving you today; he'll be with you briefly. Enjoy your meal, Mr and Mrs Holmes." The waiter walked back over to his stand and Sherlock noticed that Irene bore a smug look upon her face.

"Everything OK, Miss Adler?"

"Mrs Holmes, I think you'll find."

"We aren't wearing wedding rings. We weren't holding hands. We -"

"You had your hand on my back whilst whispering in my ear."

"That is not the kind of body language portrayed by a married couple. My hand placed on your lower back suggests a less serious relationship as opposed to holding hands; interlocking fingers would imply a stable, long-term relationship whereas a hand placed simply on your back shows less commitment – it is a 'bond' which could break at any time, much like the relationship. With this in mind, my whispering to you would be assumed – correctly assumed – to be something too inappropriate to say aloud. More often than not, married couples are, publicly, much more romantic and placid whereas less serious couples are more sexual and bold in their behaviour." Sherlock gave a quick smile before picking up a menu for himself. Speaking more slowly this time, he said "shall we have the house white?"

Irene sat opposite him, her smirk gone from her face, "do you remember me telling you I'd have you on the table?"

The smirk found its way onto Sherlock's face, "until I beg for mercy twice. How could I forget?"

She leaned across the table and ran her index finger along one of his sharp cheekbones. "Offer's still open."

Before Sherlock had a chance to reply, however, the aforementioned Paolo had approached them. He was tall and thin with olive skin and was about eighteen years old. He had unruly curly hair which was dark brown, nearing black, in colour. His Italian origins were evident even before they had heard his accent, "hello, Mr and Mrs Holmes. I am called Paolo and I be serving for you today. Is a drink I can get for you?"

"We'll have a bottle of the house white."

Irene looked up at Paolo and gave a warm smile, "yes, thank you darling. Could you also bring us a jug of water, please? I'm bound to get ever so thirsty with all the bread," she had used an extremely soft voice – certainly not her usual tone – in an attempt, Sherlock assumed, to charm the boy.

"Of course, yes, that will be with you in short moments," the young waiter nodded to Sherlock before leaving their company to get their drinks.

"'Darling'? Really?" Sherlock frowned in dismay at the Woman who simply smiled back. "You've never even met the boy and you're using pet names"

"I'm being nice."

"Since when?"

Irene laughed and rested her hands on the table, "so what did you get?"

"The house white. You heard -"

"Deduced, Sherlock. What did you _deduce?_"

The detective leaned back in his seat, a half smile on his face; the one thing he loved more than showing off was being asked to show off. "It's his father's business, obvious due to the Italian accent – the exact one his father has; they're from Florence – not to mention the fact that he looks virtually identical to the man. He's lived in Florence nearly his whole life, which we can tell from his thick accent and terrible grammar, probably with his mother who separated from his father at a young age and moved to London to open an Italian restaurant. He most likely moved over here at sixteen to work for his father as he aspires to be a chef. He's incredibly comfortable in the environment he's working in, suggesting this is his first job and one he's been doing for, say, three years? Assuming he's as young as he looks, which is nineteen. He's slightly nervous, however, which is unusual for him. The rest of his pad is written in extremely neatly, despite the speed at which he has to write, whereas today the writing is slightly wobbly. Possibly an argument with his father shortly before he had to serve us but more likely because he's serving the most beautiful woman in London. Teenage hormones."

Irene shook her head, wiping the proud look from Sherlock's face, "wrong, Mr Holmes. He's gay."

"Excuse me?"

"We'll leave this area to me. As soon as the young man came over he smiled to me but looked startled when he saw you. Like you already said, his English isn't exactly fantastic so he probably doesn't read John's blog and consequently probably doesn't know who you are. So we can cross off 'oh my God I'm serving Sherlock Holmes' from the list. So why didn't he smile at you?" She paused briefly to hear Sherlock mention that he has a website too, "he's in shock from something else, which would be your appearance. Despite my affection in calling him 'darling' he barely offered a single glance to me. Oh, and not to forget his pupils dilating," she smiled at the memory of Sherlock deducing her feelings for him before he had unlocked her phone, "how did you know about his father?"

"Solved a case for him once."

Irene rolled her eyes, "I was hoping for something more interesting than that. You solve cases for everyone."

Paolo approached the table again, this time with a bottle of wine and a jug of water on a tray. He poured a small amount of wine into Sherlock's glass, allowing the detective to try it prior to having a full glass (Sherlock was unaware of this so Irene tried it for him) before pouring a full glass for them both and placing the jug of water on their table. Hardly looking up from his notepad, he asked "are you ready for ordering your food?"

This time, Sherlock looked at the waiter's expression and thus was able to confirm Irene's deductions. Definitely gay. "Yes, we'll have the gnocchi to start with. Just one plate to share."

Paolo asked if he could get them anything else before Irene smiled and told him "no, that's it for now, thank you." After he'd left, she shot an angry glance at Sherlock.

"What?"

"You're so impolite. He's nervous, at least say 'please' and 'thank you'."

"Are you really telling me off now?"

"Discipline is my area of expertise, in case you'd forgotten."

As the meal went on, Sherlock grew to be more and more comfortable around the Woman – much more like he was whilst they'd both been dead together – and found himself feeling things he didn't really understand. It was undeniable that he'd always been attracted to her, yes, but this was something more than that. He found the feeling to be neither discomforting nor unpleasant, just slightly confusing. There had been points during dinner when he had leaned across to hold her hand and he had noticed himself enjoying the affection they offered one another. When they had finished their meal, he had held her hand as they left the restaurant purely because he had wanted to and he couldn't help but smile every time he heard the sound of her euphonious voice. He was behaving horribly romantically, he thought, but he couldn't stop himself. He didn't want to stop himself.

The two of them had decided to go for a walk through the moonlit streets of Belgravia in order to lengthen their time together. Sherlock had done up his coat buttons so as to hide his blue shirt and Irene was now wearing her coat too; it was rather cold, though he supposed it was March and John had reliably informed him that March was not one of the warmest months. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock noticed Irene looking up at him with a smile on her face. "What?"

"You."

Sherlock wore a puzzled expression as he turned his head to face her, "what about me?" He asked.

Irene stopped walking and stood beneath a streetlight, "you called me 'the most beautiful woman in London' earlier."

"Did I?" He frowned, realising he may have made one more deduction than he had expected (something which kept happening lately). She nodded in reply, an adoring smile on her face. "Well… stop smiling! It's putting me off."

"What're you trying to concentrate on?"

"Not stumbling on my words."

The Woman laughed as she did an impression of him on their first meeting: "pazussenovthakurr… position of the car…"

Sherlock gave a small laugh, recalling the embarrassment he had felt in that moment, "God, I sounded stupid."

"You couldn't sound stupid if you tried."

"Not even disguised as the vicar?"

"Not even disguised as the vicar," she closed the small gap between them, now able to feel Sherlock's warm, heavy breaths on her skin.

"I must have made quite the impression."

"I wish you were still dead," she spoke softly, gently brushing his lips with her fingertips, "it'd make this so much easier."

"This?"

Irene ran her fingers through his dark curls before tiptoeing to kiss him. She felt Sherlock's pulse quicken as she ran her hand down his chest and even felt slightly nervous, herself. She wondered how often he thought of her and their moments like this in between them taking down Moriarty's web. Sherlock was the only person Irene had ever become so intimate and honest with, the only person she had ever dropped her guard in front of. She wondered if he had ever been so intimate with anyone else, if he had ever allowed another woman to kiss him and spend time with him. Of course, the closest he ever got to dropping his guard in front of anyone else was John - that went without saying – but she had always believed there was something special in her and Sherlock's relationship. As she pulled away from him, Irene let out a heavy breath, briefly looking down at his lips before looking up at him.

Sherlock glanced around them, unsure of what to say. It had been over a year since he'd seen her, let alone kissed her, and it had made him quite nervous. He pulled out his phone, looking at the time. "Almost ten o'clock. I'd better get a cab back to Baker Street." He saw Irene nod in reply, seemingly disappointed by this.

It wasn't long before a cab passed them and Sherlock was able to call it over. Before he got in, Irene kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his hand, "goodbye, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock looked confused by this, "goodbye?"

"Yes. It's what people say when they part from one another."

"Are you not coming?" He couldn't stop the grin from slipping onto his face as he said this, knowing full well that she'd happily accept his invitation. They climbed into the cab together, both of them trying to hide their smiles. "Where are you staying?"

"The Landmark. Why?"

"Landmark hotel," Sherlock called to the driver before turning back to Irene, "we'll need to pick up your things. You can stay with me instead. Deliberately chosen location I assume?"

"Less than half a mile from you, extremely deliberate."

As they entered Irene's suite (one of 'the Landmark Suites'), he saw that she had made herself very much at home here. The wardrobe was completely filled with her clothes and the dressing table had been laid out just as her own in Belgravia had been. Sherlock assumed that she had intended to stay here for at least two months, judging by the way she had set up her room. It was an elegantly designed, spacious suite which took influence from late Victorian fashion with regards to wallpaper and furniture. In contrast to the style of the décor, though, there was a large television in the living room and bedroom. It was rather beautiful and very Irene; Sherlock was unsurprised that she had chosen somewhere like this to stay.

Whilst Irene packed up her things, Sherlock chose to sit on the bed. It was luxuriously comfortable and he was grateful to be able to rest his feet after their long walk beforehand. Upon taking out his phone, he noticed one missed call and three new text messages from Mycroft:

_Have tried to call, would be appreciative if you offered me a second out of your busy schedule to call back. M_

_I always seem to forget how utterly incompetent you are when it comes to human interaction. M_

_John informs me that you are having dinner. With whom, might I ask? M_

He tossed his phone aside rolling his eyes at his brother's concern. He'd call him back tomorrow. Seconds after throwing his phone, however, it began to ring again:

**_Mycroft Holmes (NB: avoid answering) _**_is calling…_

With three texts and a missed call, he knew that his brother wasn't going to stop attacking him anytime soon and so Sherlock decided it'd be best if he actually answered. "Dear brother, to what pleasure do I owe thee?" He spoke, using his most sarcastic tone which he reserved only for Mycroft.

"Dear Lord, you've taken your time. Avoiding me, are we?"

"Unlike you, I have a life beyond 6 o'clock," the detective sneered.

"Since when?"

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"My original call was to ask you if you've found anything more with regards to Moriarty; I did say I'd be calling every couple of days to check, you know."

"In answer to your original call, no I haven't," Sherlock replied, before asking "and this call?"

"Checking to see if you're still actually alive."

"You think I'm dead purely because I missed a call and didn't reply to a few text messages? You're as bad as Mummy."

From the bathroom, Irene called through to Sherlock, "who are you talking to?"

Mycroft sniggered, "well, goodness, found yourself another Janine? What information are you trying to acquire this time?"

"Hilarious," Sherlock uttered before hanging up on his brother. After jumping off of the bed, he went into the bathroom to help Irene pack up. It was a white marble room, spacious and elegant, and by the bath stood Irene who was collecting her soaps and shampoos. "Need any help?" He asked.

"I think I've got everything from in here now. Who was on the phone?"

"Mycroft. Wanted to know if I'd found anything new on Moriarty."

Irene nodded in understanding before leaving the bathroom to pack her toiletries. "Thank you for having me to stay with you, by the way. I am grateful," she called to Sherlock who still stood in the bathroom.

"It really is my pleasure," he smiled as he walked through to the bedroom.

Sherlock and Irene arrived at his home in Baker Street not long after 11 o'clock. The washing up had been done and left on the draining board, now completely dry, meaning John and Mary had been gone for at least an hour. The curtains were still open, indicating they had left before it got particularly dark, so they hadn't left long after Sherlock; probably just after seven. Mrs Hudson had gone to bed, so they wouldn't be disturbed by her. Mycroft now had no excuse to phone Sherlock as he'd already done so. The two of them had each other just to themselves.

Sherlock carried the suitcase with Irene's clothes in through to his room, unpacking them into his wardrobe after he had done so. The detective had concluded that it would be much too dangerous for her to stay alone in a hotel and so she should stay here, where he could always ensure her safety, for as long as she needed or wanted to. If this had have happened three years ago, despite their time together in Karachi, he would have thought it an altogether absurd idea. He had always been so proud and obsessed with 'winning' their game, even after it had stopped. After their time spent as ghosts, though, he had learnt to embrace a side of him which he had previously pushed out and ignored; his emotions. Irene had taught him so much with regards to being a better person, a good man.

After unpacking Irene's things, Sherlock walked back to the living room to find her sitting on the sofa with a bottle of wine and two glasses in front of her, with Nils Frahm's album _Screws_ playing through the docking station. He took off his suit jacket, throwing it onto his armchair as he passed it, and stepped over to the Woman. "Chablis," he observed as he picked up the wine, "good choice," he poured a glass for them both before sitting beside her.

"I bought it in France just before I came to London. I must admit, though, I had forgotten that it's your favourite."

"I never told you it was my favourite."

Irene smiled, "you used to drink a whole bottle of it to yourself on a Saturday night. And you like to think you're not normal…"

Sherlock laughed and nodded. It was strange to think how much he had changed, perhaps even grown up, in the last three years. Whilst he was still completely ingenious and at times a little heartless, he had learnt how to laugh with people, how to enjoy the company of others, how to fall asleep on the sofa after drinking a little too much wine, how to be someone's friend. The latter was perhaps the most important; John had once described him as a "machine" but now he described him as his "best friend." Unlike so many others, this was a transformation which Sherlock wasn't too conceited for. Irene pulled her legs up onto the sofa and Sherlock put his arm around her, pulling her in as close as possible. He kissed her on the head before sipping his wine. He suddenly realised how much he had missed both being around Irene and having someone in else in Baker Street with him; this was the perfect solution. "How long are you going to stay for?" He uttered quietly, almost imperceptibly, over the music.

The Woman squeezed his free hand, "until you get bored of me."

They both knew full well that the reason they were so good together was because they couldn't possibly become bored of each other; they were both geniuses in their own rights, their minds working in constant competition. "Until you get bored of me" was their equivalent of "forever." Sherlock took another sip of his wine before placing it on the table in front of them, "this is our second bottle of wine this evening. Trying to get me drunk, Miss Adler?"

"The thought never even occurred to me," she smirked, also placing her wine on the table in front. Irene moved to sit on Sherlock and ran her fingers through his hair (she had quite an obsession with this particular feature). Pulling him forwards by his collar, she lightly brushed her lips against his own before kissing him. As she did so, the Woman slowly undid each of his shirt buttons, pulling his shirt off once she had finished. She pulled her lips away from Sherlock's and lightly placed kisses along his cheek, down is neck and along the top of his chest. She could feel the detectives pulse elevate as she kissed him and couldn't help but smile; if only his past-self could see him now, she thought.

Sherlock abruptly pulled himself away from Irene and, leaving his shirt on the floor by the sofa, picked her up. He carried her through to what was now _their_ bedroom and placed her on the bed, leaning over to kiss her while he still stood. "I'll be back in a second, all right?" He whispered, before running through to the bathroom. This room was much cooler than the rest of the house which was ideal as Sherlock desperately needed a moment to cool down. He was getting nervous, a generally unfamiliar emotion to him, and he didn't want to make himself look stupid in front of Irene. It's had been over a year since they'd slept together and the Woman wasn't exactly 'easy to please', so to speak. He splashed his face with water before ruffling his hair and then proceeded to leave the bathroom.

As he stepped into their room he realised that he may be able to relax, after all; after only a few minutes of leaving her, Irene had fallen asleep. Her dress was folded on the floor beside the bed and she was wearing black and navy Stella McCartney underwear which Sherlock had bought for her last birthday they had spent together. In that moment, the Woman looked perfectly breath-taking. Sherlock quietly slipped off his trousers and climbed onto the bed next to her, curling up around her once he had laid down.

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AN: Hello all! First off, thank you all for reading; I'm really thrilled that my story has been able to gain your interest and I hope it continues to do so. Regarding references to their time in Karachi and whilst 'dead', I like to think a little more than meets the eye happened between them, something which I'll go into more detail about in later chapters. Just so you can visualise the outfits and settings (replace the spaces with dots):

Irene's dress: images bergdorfgoodman com/ca/1/product_assets/B/2/F/R/M/BGB2FRM_mx jpg

The Landmark Hotel: landmarklondon co uk

Irene's underwear: media harveynichols com/catalog/product/cache/1/image/700x/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/p/4/p470792_navy_2_v1 jpg


	3. Forgotten Challenges

**Hello all, quick note: this chapter's rated M due to sex and drug references. Enjoy!**

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Sherlock awoke to Irene playing with his scruffy curls, twisting them around her fingers. He pretended to be asleep for a while, wondering how long it'd take her to get bored. It had been ten minutes before he'd opened his eyes to see the still-amused Irene's look of concentration as she fiddled. She stopped as soon as she noticed he'd awaken and kissed him gently, her lips still tinted from last night's lipstick. "Good morning," the detective uttered, his voice husky.

"Mmm, I wish you were tired more often," she smirked, "you sound so very alluring."

"Hopefully slightly more alluring than last night else you'll be asleep before I've taken off my clothes." Sherlock threw the covers off of them both and jumped out of bed, ruffling his hair once he'd done so. He opted to ignore Irene's smirk at his remark and walked through into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle, "tea?" He shouted. He heard Irene's quiet footsteps patter through the hallway before feeling her soft arms wrap around his bare waist and her head rest on his back. Being Sherlock, the detective proceeded as normal, reaching into the cupboard for mugs and making tea despite her still being wrapped around him.

"After last night I was beginning to think you'd changed," she laughed, "but you're still Grumpylock."

Sherlock pulled himself free of the Woman before turning to face her, "it's half eight. Do you want me to be happy in the morning?"

"It'd be preferable, yes," she said, playfully poking his stomach.

The man simply rolled his eyes and returned to their tea, picking it up to take it to the table. "I hope you're not hungry," he said, sitting down with his tea, "there's no food."

"None?"

"No need for it."

"Looks like you'll be taking me out for dinner an awful lot, then," Irene teased, walking over to where Sherlock sat. She perched herself on the edge of the table before picking up and sipping her tea. The detective simply watched her in awe, shocked at how lovely she looked despite the fact that last night's makeup was smudged across her face and her hair was a complete mess. "What?" She asked, aware of his stare.

"Nothing. Drink your tea," he said bluntly, offering a slight smile.

"I am!" She laughed before shaking her head. "God, you're obvious," she uttered under her breath.

Sherlock stood up from his seat and turned towards his bedroom. Because this was one of those 'cold' months, as John had told him, he was rather cold. "Getting my dressing gown," he called back to Irene after realising she'd probably be sporting a confused expression. Once in his room, Sherlock threw on his tartan dressing gown, one which he didn't wear particularly often. He glanced at his dark blue best dressing gown and recalled the day he had found Irene asleep in his bed. Upon getting up, she'd worn that very dressing gown and tricked him into decoding the information she had given him, thus destroying all of Mycroft's hard work on _Bond Air_. It was often frustrating, he found, that nobody else on this Earth had ever managed to distract him so much that he'd turn into a complete idiot. He found it frustrating that by being desperate to impress her, he had allowed himself to put the country at so much risk. He found it so utterly frustrating that even when she wasn't there, the slightest reminder of her would send his thoughts onto a completely different track, the most recent time being John's wedding. She was his one flaw, the one person who could cause him to experience the chemical defect more commonly referred to as _sentiment_. But she was a flaw which he wouldn't change for the world, not anymore. Looking around the room, he was surprised to realise pleased he was to see evidence of Irene's presence; her clothes folded neatly on the floor beside where she had slept, the impression of her head still on her pillow, her clothes which he had hung in their wardrobe… _their _wardrobe. Sherlock quickly realised just why he was so pleased; this was _their_ room now. He wasn't alone anymore. The detective smiled to himself before walking through to the living room again. "Is there a newspaper over there?" He asked the Woman.

"Is that a new dressing gown?" She asked, ignoring his question.

"I'll look myself, then" he mumbled before answering, "old. I don't wear it often." He stepped around the living room, looking for the newspaper Mrs Hudson normally brought up for him. Sherlock pushed the things off of the coffee table, glanced into the kitchen, checked the table by the fireplace, all the usual spots. Nowhere. "For God's _sake_," he exclaimed. He needed to check for anything which could be related to Moriarty's reappearance. How was he supposed to do that without a newspaper?!

Irene simply watched him, a look of amusement on her face. "Do you remember last time we were sat in here?"

"What?" he turned towards her, confused by the subject change.

"Not last night. The time before. As I recall," she slid off of the table, walking towards him, "you set me a challenge… of sorts."

Of course, Sherlock knew exactly when she was referring to, "ah. So I did." As so often happened when he was with her, the detective forgot all about his current activity. Everything important had been locked behind a door which he was currently unable to access. Everything he needed to do was shut away. The only door he could currently open was the one to Irene's room. His mind was being ruled by his heart. "My statement still stands."

"Twice," she whispered before pulling him into a kiss. Although the game between them was now off, she was still desperate to win this small challenge. Within seconds, she had pulled his dressing gown off and tossed it aside. Their kisses quickly deepened as she began guiding him towards the desk. Sherlock threw an arm behind him, pushing everything onto the floor before allowing himself to be thrown down by the Woman. She couldn't help but smirk as she noticed his deep, heavy breaths as his chest constantly rose and fell. She was going to win this one. Climbing onto him, she ran his hands along his warm, breathless body, reaching up to his hair. Irene tied her fingers into his dark, knotty curls as she kissed him, allowing him to struggle with the clasp of her bra. "Idiot," she whispered, before placing the kisses along his neck, instantly provoking him to manage to remove the garment before taunting "took your time," as she reached to pull off the detective's underwear.

"Sorry," he breathed, an element of sarcasm present. Just as with Irene, Sherlock was confident that _he'd _be the one to win the challenge. The detective proceeded to pull off the remainder of her underwear – this activity being much easier than the first – and kicked his own onto the floor. Suddenly, the nerves he had met with last night hit him. Sex with Irene Adler was daunting enough (this had been her profession for quite some time pre-Karachi and so he felt under immense pressure) but when it was a game… the prospect of losing, as such, wasn't Sherlock's favourite thing. His nails sunk into her back as he gasped for breath, turning his face away from her in order to focus on winning; the last thing he wanted to do was give in.

Just as with drugs, Sherlock was unable to focus on anything other than the present moment. The intoxicating adrenaline rush, the heightened pulse rate, the lack of focus, the things that, before he had met Irene, only cocaine had been able to offer him. Except this was better than cocaine, _so much better_, and it gave him so much more. It was pleasurable in its entirety, had no unhealthy side effects (with the exception of pregnancy of course, but, as he recalled, Irene was on the Pill), and his receptors could not grow more tolerant as time went on. "Oh _God_, Irene," he called out unwillingly in between attempts to catch his breath. Before Irene could reply, however, he heard a different voice. The two of them froze, nervous to look up.

"JESUS CHRIST, SHERLOCK, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" John Watson yelled from the door of the flat, before saying, "Actually no. _No_. Don't answer that. God, this is just…"

The detective pushed Irene off of him, clambering off of the table to reach for his dressing gown, avoiding John's glare. "Good morning," he mumbled.

John turned to Irene, echoing their first conversation, "could you put something on, please? Anything."

"Feeling exposed?" She teased playfully, before sauntering off into her bedroom.

Mrs Hudson pushed through from behind John, a stack of newspapers in her hand. "I only came up to bring the papers! Nice to see you with a lady, Sherlock, though do try not to break the table" she smiled, placing them on the coffee table before walking out.

Her comment was accompanied by a snigger from somebody also stood behind John. "Well, Sherlock, if the situation wasn't so very amusing I may shun you for harbouring a fugitive in Baker Street. I never did think I'd find you in such a compromising position. Bravo," Mycroft jeered, clapping his hands as he stepped into the living room.

"Nice to see you've organised a family gathering, John," Sherlock threw an angry look to his friend. "Ever heard of texting before you come over?"

"I did. Five times. You didn't reply, so Mycroft texted you. Three times. Again, you didn't reply. We thought we'd better pop over to make sure you were still alive!"

Sherlock laughed sarcastically, slumping down into his armchair and pulling his legs up to his chest like a child who had just been refused sweets. "Did you have to bring _him_?" He waved an arm at his brother, rolling his eyes.

"Trust me, Sherlock," Mycroft spoke, the distaste clear in his voice, "I would never have come over if I'd have realised we would find you in such a position. What exactly do you think you're doing?" He sat on the sofa, crossing his arms in dismay at his younger brother.

"Currently? I'm sitting in my chair wondering why you've yet to leave."

"You know exactly what I mean, Sherlock."

"You knew she was alive. Obviously it'd only be a matter of time before she ended up-"

Mycroft stood up, a stern expression on his face. "Before she ended up _what_, Sherlock?" He shouted over the detective, "before she ended up moving in with you? Before you decided to start a romantic relationship with a woman who tried to bring the nation to its knees? Before you ruined all our hard work _yet again_ because you just couldn't resist having someone so pretty fawn over you? What happened between you two whilst you were out of London is none of my concern but I can't risk having her here."

Sherlock, too, stood from his chair, walking over to his brother. "This isn't four years ago," he uttered, "things have changed. She knows that with a click of your fingers you could have her dead; she's not stupid."

"I suppose that's why you like her so much?"

"Don't touch her," Sherlock snarled before turning away from his brother. Of course, Mycroft wouldn't ever consider killing her – he knew it'd undoubtedly push Sherlock over the edge – but there was always the chance that he'd have her sent away. As long as she behaved, Sherlock hoped, she'd be allowed to stay put.

"Just be careful, Sherlock," Mycroft called as he left the flat.

Upon Mycroft's exit, Mary walked into the room, closely followed by John, and sat on a chair by the table. "It's all right, Sherlock," she said sympathetically, "I don't know anything about her other than that she's a fugitive and that you actually care about her, and the former doesn't matter. If you care about her then that's enough for me. I'm sure she's brilliant."

John threw a shocked look at Mary, "are you _seriously _encouraging him to harbour a fugitive who's under a completely false identity?"

"Don't be a hypocrite, John," Mary smirked before turning back to Sherlock, "at the end of the day, regardless of what happens with you and Irene, we're here for you, even if Mycroft isn't… as long as you're not trying to pry delicate information out of her like you were with Janine,"

"Now who's the hypocrite?" Sherlock laughed, standing from his seat just as Irene re-entered the room wrapped in his blue dressing gown. "Mary, this is Irene. Irene, Mary." The detective forced a smile, provoking both of the women to laugh at his attempt to be nice.

"If you want me to stay, I strongly advise you never to do that again," Irene laughed as she approached them. "John," she smiled, "you look slightly annoyed."

"Annoyed?!" He scoffed, "I'm just wondering how many more people I know are planning on coming back from the dead. Sherlock, Moriarty and now you? What is this, the bloody zombie apocalypse?"

"You've had around 18 hours to process this information. Why are you suddenly surprised again?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"If anyone wants me," John mumbled as he turned to the door, "I'll be downstairs with Mrs H."

Once John had left, Mary went after him, stating that she "should probably follow him, he gets a bit annoyed if not," and Sherlock and Irene were left alone in 221B once more. For the rest of the morning, they sat in blissful silence beside each other, occasionally brushing hands and speaking only to offer the other a cup of tea. Sherlock flicked through his stack of newspapers, carefully scanning each one for anything which could potentially be related to Moriarty whilst Irene simply watched. Despite the lack of event, both were content.


End file.
